


Or Burn the Tree

by Insignem



Category: American Gods - Neil Gaiman, Norse Mythology, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, BAMF!Stiles, Crossover, F/M, I promise this will be Sterek eventually, M/M, Season 3, magic!Stiles (sort of), relatively canon through 3.07 (and will follow along with some events past that as well), tags will be updated along the way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-20 05:05:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/883271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insignem/pseuds/Insignem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of dealing with threats from the Alpha pack and a serial-killing Druid, Stiles starts to have strangely realistic dreams; dreams of stories he hasn't heard since childhood, of gods and monsters and ancient legends - and of his own role in what's to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I originally intended to post this as one long fic, but I'm posting the beginning now so I don't get distracted by tomorrow's episode. It's pretty much canon through 3x06, then diverges wildly into a world of gods and Norse mythology (which I will probably end up messing with quite a bit). Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Title comes from [Follow My Feet](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ejLveeg_RnU) by The Unlikely Candidates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story picks up the morning after the battle where they think Derek died, the day they travel to the cross country meet (3x05).

_There is a Tree. At first, there is nothing else. The Tree is all, and everything that Is hints at its being from where it resides nestled amongst the reaching Branches, where it twines around the grasping Roots, where it is etched into the whorls and lines of the vast, incomprehensible Trunk._

_But there is also a man. He hangs from the Tree, head slumped, unmoving even in the calm but constant Wind-that-is-Time that fills every space. The Tree sways, but the man does not. Even the blood leaking from his ruined eye-socket is still, for it has dried in deep, brown streaks upon his face. He is very, very dead._

_But then the head lifts and a single, piercing blue eye snaps open, fixed upon Stiles._

He wakes with a start, sitting bolt upright. The image of that eye is burned into his retinas in the darkness and he fumbles for the light, wincing as cuts harshly through the room but welcoming it nonetheless. What the _fuck_. He hasn't a dream that vivid since childhood, the kind that lingers on in the waking world so strongly that he wants to go to his mother for comfort, as he used to. The sensation of that odd wind on his face remains; he shivers as he still feels the physical presence of the great tree before him. 

He considers going to his laptop and researching the images in his dream out of default, but something feels familiar enough about them that he thinks perhaps it will come to him when he is a bit more awake and alert. Already, sleep is pulling him back in. He has school in the morning. The dream can wait.

But he is woken again a few hours later by texts from a distraught Scott, and when he finally gets out of him what happened, he completely forgets to look into the dream at all.

* * *

 

_The same man, again. He does not hang from the Tree this time, but rather, sits upon a throne in a great hall. His ruined eye is covered with a black patch; the other is shining with that same arresting blue. Two ravens circle overhead. At his feet, this time, are two wolves. They lick anxiously at their master's toes, their sharp whines and yips filling the silence of the hall. He feeds them, then, large chunks of raw, dripping meat and as they rip into it he looks straight at Stiles and smiles._

Stiles jolts awake again, this time with snarls and tearing flesh in his ears. He's terrified for a moment that the uneasy truce has broken and the werewolves are ripping each other apart on the bus, but as he takes in his surroundings he sees Scott right next to him, sleeping with his head against the window. Right. The dreams, again. He thinks he sees a roadside diner out the window that indicates they're about twenty minutes from Beacon Hills, and thank god for that because he should probably find out what's happened at home while they've been gone. Immediately.

 Most of the bus seems to be dozing as well, if the sleepy loll of heads around him is any indication. Looking good on the angsty werewolf death brawl watch, then. Wolves, though. That brings him back to the dream, and he probes at the familiarity of it, trying to figure out where he's seen it before. He thinks back to those childhood dreams again. Some sort of recurring thing? But it's the vividness that reminds him of those, not necessarily the subject matter. His mom would probably have known, he thinks bitterly, staring down at his hands. He remembers going to her when he'd had dreams like that as a child, and being comforted as she rocked him, speaking soft words to him in a language he no longer knows, or perhaps never really did. Sometimes he misses her in the oddest ways, like when the _Thor_ movie had come out and he had remembered how she'd tried to get him into those comic books as a child. He'd always been more of a Batman kid, but he'd liked the stories she told him anyway, of the gods and goddesses that filled the Norse pantheon and their various exploits. 

Oh.

 _Oh._  

If he didn't have the perfectly valid excuse of being a little caught up in the Darach/Alpha pack/people dying left-and-right thing, he'd be beating himself up for not figuring it out immediately. Of course he'd seen the images from his dream before; they were practically the bedtime stories he'd grown up with.

Odin, All-Father. The World Tree.

Just what he needs, really. He's already got Alpha werewolves and a possibly suicidal best friend and serial-killing evil Druids on his hands, let's just throw in some terrifyingly realistic dreams about ancient Viking deities and call it a day in the life of Stiles Stilinski.

_Perfect._

* * *

  

The bus finally arrives back in the BHHS parking lot, and Stiles strongly considers getting in his jeep, driving home, and passing out on his bed for the next ten hours. Being dead to the world is a _very_ appealing prospect at the moment. But he doesn't think he's prepared for another one of those dreams yet, and as much as he doesn't want to deal with what's happened – well, it needs to be dealt with, and as usual it's going to fall to him. Scott seems stable enough, but the guy really could use a good rest and a chance to take his mind of everything, more than anyone. Allison is hovering concernedly in any case, so he claps his best friend on the shoulder and heads off to his jeep.

He knows he could ask Lydia to help him – and it is _so_ good to have her (mostly) aware and using her formidable brainpower on their side – but he can't bring himself to involve her right now, not when he has to go see Peter. He's reluctant enough about that himself, as it is. Plus, it's not like Lydia gives a shit about Derek – to be honest, he's not even sure that he does himself. Though it's awful to admit, their lives would be a hell of a lot easier if Derek was actually dead. But something just feels _wrong_ about it. Too many people have died, and Stiles can't handle losing another person he knows – regardless of who that person is.

As he heads towards Peter's apartment – he'd of course looked up the lease information after Peter had mentioned it; just had to be sure – he wonders if he should talk to Deaton. Well, no. He definitely _should_. Too much had happened last night not to fill him in. He _wants_ to trust the vet, but he hadn't been joking when he told Scott his suspicions about the guy's cryptic nature. If he was really trying to help them, shouldn't he be a bit more inclined to freely offer them the vital information they always needed and he so clearly possessed? For someone who was ostensibly on the 'good' side, he was far too reticent for Stiles' tastes. 

But with Lydia's wolfsbane revelation, it's clear that the Darach might be involved with the whole werewolf thing now, and Deaton will probably be able to help them make sense of the multiple threats they're facing. He resolves to visit Deaton later, and pulls into the lot by Peter's building.

Which is much less like the dark, damp lair he hadn't been able to stop himself from picturing. The lobby is all rich leather and marble, elegant and modern in a way he probably should have expected. This hallways only confirm this impression, and it's all so profoundly _normal_ that when he knocks on Peter's door, he half-expects the address is wrong and some proper young businessman will answer. But the door swings open to a dark-haired girl about his age, giving him an overwhelmingly familiar bitch-face. He narrow his eyes, then puts on a broad smile.

“Well, your eyebrows aren't quite as scowly, but the effect is pretty much the same,” he says, patting her on the shoulder as he pushes his way past her and into the apartment. Cora snarls a little but shuts the door behind him, turning to face him with her arms crossed.

“What do you want... Stiles, isn't it? The human?” She sound distinctly unimpressed by his species status, smirking as she gives him a rather obvious once-over.

“Cora, dear, stop checking out our guest,” comes Peter's drawl as he appears in the doorway.

She ignores her uncle and addresses Stiles again. “Well? It's a bit rude of you to come here, at a time like this, and act as if we haven't just lost a family member.”

Stiles stares at her. “Excuse me? There are so many things wrong with that statement I don't even know if I should start with the fact that _you let your only surviving family members think you were dead for YEARS_ , which is way suspicious by the way, or with the fact that _Derek might not actually be dead._ ”

He pauses. Blinks. “On second thought, that latter bit is much more important. We can talk about the other part later.”

Cora is glaring, but Peter simply looks amused. “I knew there was a reason I always liked you, Stiles.”

“Thanks,” he says. “That's revolting.” 

Peter just grins and turns to his niece, “Don't be fooled, Cora. He's smarter than he comes across. Already knows not to trust you.”

“Yeah well I don't trust _you,_ either,” Stiles retorts.

Peter's smile, if anything, widens. “As for my dear nephew... yes, we suspected as much. We were looking for him, in fact. Ennis survived – at least for a time – so there's reason to believe Derek did as well. But he wasn't at Deaton's; might have sensed to Alpha pack there and stayed away...” 

“Whoa, wait, what? Deaton was helping the Alphas?” Stiles asks, horrified at the thought of having his suspicions confirmed.

“We think their was most likely coercion involved, Stiles,” Peter says placatingly. “Deaton and our family go a ways back, and he has always been trustworthy. Can't blame a man for liking his secrecy, now can you?” 

The way he says it makes shivers crawl up Stiles' back, but there's no reason for Peter to lie about trusting the vet, so he lets the matter rest and turns his focus back to the Hales. “Okay, so he wasn't at Deaton's. And you're not looking for him now; why exactly?” 

Cora speaks up then. “We tracked him all night... found his scent, but it ran cold at the school. We came back here and hoping he'll contact us,” - at this, she waves the phone in her hand - “but in the meantime we're trying to figure out what to do about Deucalion et al. If Derek's alive-” Her voice actually breaks a little, Stiles notices – it's the first emotion she's shown - “Then he's still in danger. We're doing everything we can.”

Her demeanor harshens again. “Not that I should have to explain myself to you, Stilinski.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. We can stop with all the bullshit, I think. It's not like I ever do anything but help you all. God knows why.”

He reaches forward and snatches Cora's phone from where it's held loosely in her hand, sidestepping her grab for it and typing in his number. He tosses the phone back to her, then heads for the door. “I'm going to check his loft,” he calls over his shoulder. “Call me if either of you need help with simple logic or basic human decency or anything of that sort!”

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he climbs back into his car. The text is from an unknown number. **The alphas might be watching** , it says. **Be careful.**

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now follows canon up to 3.07 - this chapter bridges the gap between 3.06 and 3.07. Less on the mythology end of things here, but some important conversations. More will be explained soon : )

Stiles doesn't see any signs of activity around Derek's building, but given the Alphas' creepy penchant for staging elevator encounters, he forgoes the lift in favor of climbing the stairs. There are blood spatters in the hallway leading to Derek's door, and just before he knocks, it slides open to reveal his very flustered-looking English teacher.

“Heeey Miss Blake,” Stiles says slowly, more than a little thrown to find her there.

“Stiles!” Her hand flutters a bit, then she presses it against her chest. Stiles thinks her expression must match his own right now. “I didn't realize you knew Derek.”

“Uh... yeah I mean, I don't see why you would know that,” he responds. He knows he sounds rude, but the bizarreness of the situation prevents him from really caring.

Miss Blake bites her lip. “Right, of course,” she says. “Sorry. Um. He was really badly hurt, you know, and I don't think this is the best time-”

“Yeah, I know!” Stiles stares at her. He can't even begin to fathom what she seems to think is going on right now. “Why do you think I'm here? To sell him girl scout cookies? We thought he was _dead._ ” He pauses, not sure what she knows. “Look, I'm just here to make sure he's alright, so if you'll excuse me-” he steps around her. She looks a bit shell-shocked, so he smiles politely and tells her, “See you in class on Monday!” She nods, confusion still evident on her face, and turns to hurry back down the hallway.

Stiles steps into the loft to find Derek standing by the window watching him. He's shirtless, and there's not a single wound in sight. “Oh, hey, asshole,” Stiles says, chucking a pillow from the couch at him. “So what, you decide to just bang the hot teacher and let the rest of us think you were dead? 

Derek catches the pillow and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, because you all care so much,” he scoffs, tossing it back onto the couch and then sitting down on it himself.

Stiles sneers at him. “Yeah okay that's enough with the whole nobody-loves-me martyr bullshit, thank you.” He pulls out his phone and sends a quick message to everyone. It buzzes with responses almost immediately- **Thank god** from Scott and Isaac, and a terse **I'll be right over** from Cora. 

Stiles waves his phone at Derek. “Cora's on her way,” he tells him. “Because, you know, aside from the fact that none of us want to see you die, your long-lost sister might be pretty broken up to lose you again after you've only just reunited.” 

Derek looks down, his shoulders slumping. When he looks back up though, his eyes are narrowed at Stiles. “So you and my sister are texting each other now?” he asks, sounding vaguely frightened by the prospect. 

Stiles smirks. “That's what you're choosing to focus on right now? How about we talk about the fact that Scott felt so guilty over your 'death' that he wasn't healing – then almost killed himself – or the fact that the Alpha pack is even more hellbent on your destruction now, or maybe how you just involved some innocent person who shouldn't have anything to do with any of this?” he concludes, gesturing towards the door.

“Hey.” Derek sounds pissed. “First of all, that last part was entirely unintentional. I went to the school hoping to find one of you guys, but no one was there, and I honestly couldn't make it any further. Jennifer found me and brought me back here. And what do you mean, Scott almost killed himself?” He glares at Stiles, as if expecting him to recant what he'd said.

Stiles sighs. “Look, none of us were at the school because we left for a cross country meet. We got stuck overnight at this creepy motel, and you really don't want to know what shit went down there. I lived it, and let me tell you, I want to spend the rest of my life pretending it didn't happen.”

Derek's brow furrows. “Try me.” 

Stiles groans but complies, filling Derek in on what went down as they wait for Cora. When he finishes, Derek looks sick. “So these sacrifices, this Darach thing, you think it's involved with werewolves somehow, too?” 

“Yeah, looks like it,” Stiles affirms grimly. “The wolfsbane thing was clearly a targeted attack. But it affected Ethan just like everyone else, so the Alpha pack can't have been behind it. I don't know man. It's messed up.” 

Derek nods, and glances up at him. They look at each other for a long moment, sharing the fear in each other's eyes, until the door slides open again with a clang and Cora appears, looking pissed.

“And that's my cue,” Stiles says, heading towards the door. He pauses and looks back, meeting Derek's eyes again. “For what it's worth, Derek, I'm glad you're not dead.” The man nods. His mouth is set in a hard line, but there's a slight softening in the tension of the way he's holding himself. “Just- let's try to keep it that way, okay? Ethan warned us. Kali's coming for you and she's not going to stop until she's destroyed you. So look out for yourself. And ask for help if you need it.”

He glances at Cora, who's looking between the two of them thoughtfully. Stiles excuses himself to let the brother and sister have it out, slipping out quietly and heading back towards the stairs.

* * *

 

He's still in the parking lot, sitting in his jeep texting Scott, when Cora bursts out of the building. She looks upset, and questioning his judgement, Stiles gets out of the car and waves to get her attention. She frowns at him, but heads over to where Stiles has pulled himself up onto the jeep's hood. 

“You're still here.” Her tone indicates that she doesn't care one way or the other, but Stiles just shrugs and pats the hood at his side. She climbs up next to him, surprising him.

“Want to talk about it?” he asks, figuring that it's still before noon and he's already overstepped so far today that there's no point in stopping now. 

“Not really.” She heaves a sigh.

Stiles waits.

A bird touches down on the pavement in front of them, then flutters away. Cora's eyes follow it.

“We weren't always like this, you know.” Her voice is soft but tense as it breaks the silence.

Stiles turns towards her, but says nothing.

She looks at him. “My family. We were normal, happy. Derek and I – and Laura – we had a good childhood. Not all packs work that way, but ours did. For us, pack _was_ family – I would never have even thought to separate those two terms.”

She twines and untwines her fingers, staring. “We've forgotten how to be family, I think. Peter was always the cool, snarky uncle, but- he wasn't _unhinged_. There was none of that sense of danger lurking below the surface, like he's just waiting to snap. And Derek...” She laughs, shaking her head. “Derek is nothing like the brother I knew. Not that I'm any better, but- he's just so cold, and angry, and broken. Like he doesn't know how to be happy anymore. Like he doesn't even want to try.”

Stiles shifts a bit, not knowing if he should say something. “It's almost like he doesn't think he deserves it,” he states quietly.

Cora nods, and there's too much pain written into her face. “Yeah.” She sighs again. “He hasn't told me much, about what he and Laura went through during all those years. It must have been hell, burying our whole family... Laura trying to be a proper Alpha, keeping the two of them safe from rogue wolves at every turn...” she trails off, and Stiles processes that piece of information. 

“Is that common, then? That they'd have to deal with rogue wolves and such?”

“Oh, yeah. Some wolves are content to stay in their packs, as betas, or even live on their own as omegas... but others just aren't satisfied when the possibility of seizing greater power is out there. So they'll leave, and they'll go after any weak Alpha they can find. Why do you think new Alphas are in such a hurry to build up their packs? An established Alpha rarely has to worry, unless there's a challenge from within his or her own pack. But it was just Derek and Laura; there must have been wolves trying to kill her at every turn.” Her face is equal parts disgusted and heartbroken. 

Stiles lets it sink in. “So Deucalion and his crowd, their whole deal... it's like an extreme version of that? They seized power and just never stopped?”

“Exactly,” she affirms, with her jaw clenched tight. “But there's something... _off_ about Deucalion. He's leader of a pack of Alphas; the dynamics shouldn't work; it doesn't make sense. It's almost like he's more than just an Alpha, like he's something else entirely. He even...” She frowns, caught up in a memory for a moment. “He said something to that effect once. I thought he was just power-tripping, but I don't know. Maybe there's something to it.”

Stiles doesn't like the troubled look on her face, but he prompts, “What do you mean? What did he say, exactly?”

Cora opens her mouth to answer, but they're both startled when her phone suddenly goes off in her pocket. She pulls it out, glancing at the screen. “It's Peter,” she says, sounding apologetic. “I guess that will have to be a story for another time.”

“Wait, Cora,” Stiles brushes her arm with his fingertips as she hops off the jeep. “You said you're like Derek. That you don't remember how to be family, either. Whatever you went through all these years, it changed you, too.”

She glances at him before she walks away, and there's something so immeasurably sad in her eyes that Stiles feels like a jackass for even bringing it up. But she mouths, “Another time,” back to him, even as he hears Peter start talking at the other end. He quirks his mouth into an awkward half-smile of acknowledgement, then slides off his jeep as well and climbs into the driver's seat. It's definitely time to go home and sleep for as long as he possibly can, circadian rhythms be damned.

* * *

 

He sleeps for most of the afternoon, and somehow it's long and peaceful – no shatteringly vivid dreams, just a calm and unbroken stretch of genuine rest.

It's a good thing, too, because that night everything gets shot straight to hell once again.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles stands in the flooded loft, his hand gripping Derek's shoulder. He's wet to the ankles, but numb all the way to his core. Boyd is dead, and the Alphas are leaving, and Derek is shaking under his fingers and Cora is sobbing and there's water everywhere and Boyd is _dead_ and Stiles is so, so done. 

He barely registers relief when a text from Scott tells him that Deaton is safe, can't think of a thing to say in response. He's halfway out of the apartment on the way to his car before he even realizes he left, dripping down the hallways as he goes. The drive home is a blank. It's not until he pulls into his driveway to see his dad getting out of his own car in front of him; not until he folds himself against the man's chest, surprising his dad before those strong, familiar arms tighten around him, that Stiles is able to feel anything at all.

Safe, there, holding and being held- Stiles is ready to blurt it all out, to tell his dad everything that has happened since that night in the woods last spring. He almost does. But he stops himself, drawing back instead to look his father in the eyes.

“Dad, I-” he shakes his head in amazement. “Dad, Scott told me. What you did. How you knew.”

There are so many creases etched into his dad's forehead. Stiles wonders how many he's put there. But they ease a little bit at Stiles' words, as the sheriff gives him a faint grin. A surge of pride fills Stiles for his dad, human in the midst of all this madness, but holding his own just as surely as the hunters and werewolves and druids and whatever else is out there.

“You're bad _ass_ ,” he says, succinctly expressing everything he's not sure how to explain.

“Yeah, well, don't give me too much credit,” the sheriff tells him, a bit ruefully, as they head into the house. “Your mom was the one always reminding me to pay attention to the little things, telling me all about how symbols have power.” His hand goes to his neck, fingers reaching for a chain that has hung there as long as Stiles can remember. He pulls the charm out from beneath his shirt. It's a symbol that looks a bit like a 'Y,' a straight stalk branching into three forks near the top. Stiles knows he's seen it before.

“ _Algiz_ ,” his father says, noticing him looking. “It's an old Viking rune. This necklace was hers, you know. She gave it to me when... when she was in the hospital. She told me that the rune means protection.” 

He slips the chain over his head and holds it out to Stiles. He takes it. The metal is warm where it rests on his palm. “She also told me that I should give it you if a time came when I thought you needed protecting,” his dad says. “From what, I don't know. But... look, kid, I don't know what's going on with you. But with everything that's happened recently, it sure as hell seems like you could use this.”

Stiles stares at the symbol in his hands. Under his scrutiny, it seems almost to glow. Stiles shakes his head sharply. _Protection._ “No,” he tells his father. “I want you to keep it. You need it, okay?” His voice sounds strange, even to himself. The rune flares searing hot against his skin for a moment, just before he hands it back to his father. The sheriff raises an eyebrow at Stiles, but takes the proffered charm.

“Okay,” he says, drawing out the word, and Stiles knows his tone was a little off, a little too insistent. He hesitates.

“Dad- Mom was from Norway, right? Do you think she thought all this was real? Believed that a rune could offer protection, believed in all those old stories she told us?”

His father is staring at him, but he doesn't look like he thinks his son is going crazy. He looks thoughtful. “I don't know, Stiles. But I do know that they were important to her. And that's enough for me.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, rubbing his fingers where he can still feel that strange heat. “She taught the runic alphabet to me, back when I was younger. All the ancient symbols and their meanings. I only wish I could remember more.” 

“Me too.” Stiles catches the wistful note in his dad's voice. “Me too.”

Stiles follows him as he goes into to his office and walks over to the bookshelf there. He pulls out a thick, dark tome from where it was wedged among case files and a couple Tom Clancy novels, then hands it to Stiles. It's old and worn, and when Stiles cracks it open he remembers it, remembers his mom showing him the line-drawn illustrations inside as she told him her stories.

“This has been in your mom's family for a long time,” comes his dad's voice, interrupting his fascinated turning of pages. “I don't know if we ever told you this, but she could trace her lineage all the way back to the Vikings. It's all in there, written on the pages, just like people preserve their family records in Bibles. You've got some famous Viking kings and warriors in your blood, son. It's about time you learned your history.”

Stiles grips the book in his hands. “Thanks, dad.” He smiles at his father, feeling less on edge than he was in a while. “Though, I am - and always will be - a Stilinski.”

His dad laughs and pulls him into a quick, tight hug. “Damn right, kid.”

* * *

 

Stiles has been lying on his back in the dark for at least an hour, staring at the ceiling, before he gives up and flips the light on next to his bed. It dispels the shadows, thankfully, for in each dark corner of his room had lurked a reminder of all the awful things he's seen. They're behind his eyelids, too, whenever he tries to shut them – the image of Boyd, crashing heavily to the floor; of Derek's stricken face and Cora's ruined sobs; of the ripples in the water that Kali leaves in her wake, along with more death, more destruction. He doesn't want to sleep. He wants to understand what's going on.

There could be a connection, he thinks, something between the Alphas and the druids and all the ancient Norse stuff that's cropping up in his life again. His mother's book is resting on his bedside table and he reaches for it, wondering if it could somehow hold answers.

The book is not nearly as old as the records it keeps, he realizes as he pages through it. The long lists of lineage, names and dates and notable particulars, must have been painstakingly copied in sometime in the 1800s, it looks like. Given that, though, it's a bit disconcerting how the stories transcribed in the volume don't read like retellings of old myths and legends. They read a lot more like a history to Stiles, like factual accounts of the deeds of ancient gods and monsters and heroes.

The more he reads, the more he remembers of the tales told to him in his mother's soft voice, of the lessons she'd impressed upon him and that feeling he'd had, as a smile child, that he better listen to his mom because this stuff was _important_. He thinks back to the question he'd asked his dad. The answer seems pretty clear. His mom must have believed that this all was real – and why shouldn't it be? Werewolves exist. Creatures straight out of myth. Strange Druid magic stuff is a thing. Whatever psychic-something talent Lydia has going on. If you can have all that, why not Norse mythology?

( _Why not_ all _the mythology?_ His treacherous mind wonders, but he tamps down that thought. There's enough going at the moment; the last thing he needs is to worry about the possibility of more supernatural beings and the appearance of all-powerful deities.)

But the fact remains - he _knows_ he felt something happen when he handed that rune charm back to his dad, and those dreams were far too real, far too strange, not to mean something.

Stiles suppresses a yawn and turns back to the book, opening it aimlessly. _The Death of Baldur_ , reads the heading at the top of the page. It's as good a place to start as any. He begins to read.

* * *

 

Stiles dozes off eventually, the last few hours before dawn fragmented with fitful tossing and turning, snatches of sleep plagued with the tortured images of the past few weeks. He gives up when it starts to grow light outside his window, that pale white of a mist-shrouded morning seeping into his bedroom. He slides out of bed and pulls aside the curtain. It's the sort of morning that makes him feel as though the world could have disappeared and he'd never even know it. Maybe it has.

It's a nice thought, for a moment, until his breath catches as he makes out shapes in the mist. There's something – some _one_ , maybe more than one – watching him from the lawn. Staring up at his window.

He must finally be crazy, he realizes, because he's out of his room and making his way quietly down the stairs before it occurs to him how bad of an idea it is to blindly walk straight into whatever is out there waiting for him. But they _are_ waiting; he can tell. And there's a strange idea making its way around his head that maybe he was waiting for them, too.

He steps out into the yard. Everything is muted in the fog, sensations duller save for the cold of the dew-strewn grass under his bare feet. The shapes emerge, sharpening as they near. They stop when they reach him. 

“Scott? Derek?”he whispers to the two wolves before him.

But that's not right. These are true wolves, the kind that isn't found in California. Not a trace of humanity about them. None of the werewolves he knows can fully shift into a real wolf. 

Stiles crouches slowly, extending a hand. The wolves step closer, and he draws a quick breath when one – a dark, nearly black, gray – sniffs at it. Its eyes are a gleaming silver, he sees, as it suddenly lunges forward. Stiles yelps and tumbles backwards, but the wolf looming over his face merely gives his chin a quick lick. Stiles is too confused to do anything as the other wolf – this one a pale gray, almost white, but with the same silver eyes – approaches and licks a warm stripe on his cheek. He scrambles back into a sitting position as they draw back a bit, regarding him with similarly tilted heads and ears perked straight-up.

They look so much like the German Shepherds Stiles often sees at the station that he almost laughs. But there is something different about these two; something strikingly _other_ despite their solid, corporeal presence in front of him. They're clearly not wild animals. They're not werewolves. But he _knows_ them, doesn't he? They certainly seem to know him. 

A crow flaps down from a tree and the darker wolf suddenly snaps at it viciously, its jaws just missing the bird's tail feathers. Stiles stares. 

Oh my _god_. They're the wolves from his dream. They're in the book. Odin's wolves.

“Geri. Freki.” It's not a question. Their tails wag in unison at their names, their attention turning back to him. “Holy shit,” he breathes. Looks like he has his answer. His mom's stories are real.

 


	4. Chapter 4

The wolves take off before Stiles even has a chance to consider what they're doing in his yard. He swears, quickly contemplating whether he should run back in and grab his keys so he can try to follow them, when he sees them pause just on the verge of disappearing beyond the reach of his vision in the fog. The paler one – Geri, he's pretty sure – offers a quick yip. It's clearly an invitation to follow. He does.

He's halfway down the street before he remembers that he's barefoot and clad only in a thin white shirt and ratty flannel pants that are already soaked from dew at the cuffs. Freki seems to notice that he's stopped, and turns back to lick quickly at his bare feet. The sting of gravel against his soles disappears. Stiles frowns, but hey, at this point he might as well just go with it. He picks up after the wolves at a run, and they're through the empty streets of Beacon Hills and at the edge of the woods before he knows it.

Everything's a bit surreal. The tree tops are still wreathed in fog, and he's run miles through town, barefoot. Flanked by two wolves. Who are straight out of Norse myths. And he's not even breathing hard. It's a measure of how strange his life has become that he can accept all this, that he's perfectly content with the concept that this is reality and he hasn't gone completely insane.

That being said, these woods have seen far too many gruesome murders for it to be a sane decision for him to wander in like this, defenseless. But the wolves are waiting patiently for him at the edge of the tree line, and misplaced or not, he trusts them. It's odd, and not entirely warranted, but it's there. So he nods to Freki, gives Geri a quick scratch behind the ears, and heads in to the woods with a wolf on each side.

The forest is quiet, lacking the usually early morning chatter of birds and rustling plant life. They move in further, slower now, the wolves padding gently beside him. Their paws leave soft indentations in the soil, Stiles is gratified to note. This is real, he reminds himself. Again.

Eventually, they come to a slight break in the trees. The wolves nudge him forward into the small clearing, which he immediately sees is dominated by the base of a giant trunk. A behemoth of a tree must have grown here once, Stiles notes, as he reaches out a hand to trace the rings encircling the stump. He's struck by the fact that his actions feel almost reverent; that this place is at once both familiar and wholly strange.

He hears movement in the trees behind him and he turns, about to search the wolves for any indication of why they brought him here, but Geri and Freki are gone.

A figure steps into the clearing. “I see you've found the nemeton,” comes the voice. It's Cora. 

She looks just as surprised as Stiles is. Her eyes widen as she takes in his shoeless, pajama-clad state, and he's suddenly self-conscious, because how the hell is he supposed to explain this? Cora's apparently been running, hard by the looks of it – her breath is coming in heavy pants and she's sweating, even in the chilly air of the morning.

“Nemeton?” he asks her, because there's a thousand things he wants to say, but that's the only one that comes out. 

She nods, warily, then bends towards the ground to stretch, shaking her body out as she goes. Stiles swallows hard around his suddenly dry mouth. He sits with his back against a nearby tree trunk, facing the stump. “Nemeton,” Cora repeats, as she paces in front of him. “You know about the druids; about their whole tree thing?” He nods. “A nemeton was a sacred grove, a holy place, to those Celts.”

Stiles frowns. “Why is there one here?” he asks, considering that strange hum of _something_ that seems the pervade the clearing.

She shrugs. “There have been werewolves here for a long time. And where there are werewolves, there are druids. And I guess where there are druids, there are nemetons. Or maybe there's just something about Beacon Hills.”

“Yeah...” Stiles says absently, thinking over her words. “Wait, what? 'Where there are werewolves, there are druids?'”

Cora looks uncomfortable. “It goes back to our origin story. You know it?" 

“Lycaon... and his sons...”

“Exactly. The story goes that they went to the druids for help. To learn how to control the shift, to be both person and a wolf. And since then, werewolf packs have always had a druid to help them and to guide them – an emissary, is the term we use.”

“Huh.” Stiles considers this for a moment. “So, Deaton? He's the Hale emissary? Why didn't Derek know that?” 

Cora rolls her eyes. “Derek didn't pay enough attention when we learned about werewolf lore. And Deaton worked more with our mother and with Laura, the Alpha-to-be. I guess Derek wouldn't have interacted with him much. I just liked to be the annoying, tag-along little sister.” Stiles laughs a bit at that, but her wistful tone belies the lightheartedness of her statement, and Stiles feels that ache inside him grow, the one that shows up whenever he thinks too hard about the Hales and what had happened to them. 

It's definitely time to change the subject. “So... Greek myth. Ancient Celtic mystics. You think that's all true?” 

Cora's eyes flash yellow for a moment, but she's grinning. “Well, werewolves are real. Why shouldn't all that be?”

“Yeah, but... Zeus, and... you don't think maybe it's just a story? That werewolves just evolved, same as homo sapiens?”

There's a thoughtful look in her eyes as she answers, “Or maybe God placed Adam and Eve in a garden and _boom_ , humans. Or Prometheus shaped them out of mud. I don't know. Does it matter? Homo sapien, homo lupus... we're here now. That's what counts, as far as I'm concerned." 

And okay, Stiles can get behind that. But still, he needs to know. “But were there any other stories? Any connections to other mythologies? Like, uh, Norse, for example?” He tries to sound casual but probably fails miserably, considering the strange look Cora is giving him.

She answers, though. “Norse? Maybe. I think my dad told that me there might have been werewolf vikings, like berserkers and such. He could have been making it up for my sake – I had a viking phase when we learned about them at school. I'm really not sure.”

Right. The berserker connection makes sense; he'll have to look into that. Stiles fishes once more. “Actual wolves, though? Like I know there were actual wolves in Norse mythology, do you know if there are any werewolf stories about that?”

Cora shakes her head. “Not that I know of. But we were young; they didn't tell us a lot. Just bedtime stories really, and small bits of lore, your standard 'Stay away from wolfsbane' warnings-” Stiles scoffs. Oh yeah, standard. But Cora is still talking. “Like the whole thing with the telluric currents; I'd never heard of them until yesterday. But now I think I remember hearing the adults mentioning something like them, when they talked about this place. Like they all converged here.” 

“This clearing. The nemeton.”

It's not really a question, but Cora nods. “There's a lot of power here. It's sacred. Maybe it's the currents, or the way the moon hits it... We'd gather at the nemeton for a young wolf's first shift, for family pack meetings...” her voice trails off, the sadness painfully audible.

Stiles concentrates on that hum, shuts his eyes and focuses. He presses his palms to the ground, _searches_ , and jerks suddenly when the force pushes back against his hands, sluicing through his veins til his body is filled with the same hum. “Whoa.”

His eyes are shut, but he can imagine the look Cora must be giving him right now. He can hear it in the wariness of her tone, as she asks, “What just happened to you?”

“Don't know. But, you were right. The currents _definitely_ converge here.”

She eyes him suspiciously, but drops it, only to change tack to another line of questioning instead. “So what are you doing out here, anyway?” Her tone tells him that she's been dying to ask him that since she first saw him.

“You wouldn't believe me if I told you.” He says it with what he knows is an absolutely obnoxious smirk, hoping if he comes across as douchey enough, she'll let it go. But all he accomplishes is pissing her off – she's practically growling as she steps in close and leans over him to bite right back.

“Listen to me, Stilinski. I don't know what the hell is with you today, but you're in the woods in your pajamas at the ass-crack of dawn – you're not even wearing _shoes_ , so how the hell did you get out here? You're asking seriously _strange_ questions, and honestly, do you think there's anything you could say to me that I wouldn't believe? Most people think my species doesn't exist outside of nightmares and bad horror movies! So let's skip the evasiveness and why don't you tell me _what the hell you're doing out here_.” 

Her voice drops to a ferocious whisper on that last bit, and Stiles can't help but be a little scared of her. And maybe a little bit turned on. But he swallows hard and returns with, “A Hale? Calling me out on being evasive? That's a bit rich, don't you think?” 

Cora glares at him for a moment, but then drops her shoulders out of the rigid stance she's been holding. She suddenly seems a hell of a lot younger, but simultaneously as though she's seen far too much, lost too much, for her years. Which is because she has, Stiles thinks. 

Her words are no less harsh though, as she spits, “Cut the snark, Stilinski. I really don't need to deal with your shit right now.” 

Stiles flinches around the sudden, sharp pang of guilt that stabs through him. He'd nearly forgotten about the events of the night before, lost in his own haze of resurfacing memories and startling visitors. But he can't push it from his mind now, not with Cora's haunted face right in front of him. She's clearly exhausted, and immeasurably sad – he remembers, even in the horror of everything that had happened, Cora's devastation had stood out, as she'd sobbed over Boyd's body while the rest of them stood frozen.

“Look, Cora...” he starts. “I'm sorry. It's just not something I'm ready to talk about. With anyone. Not even Scott,” he adds, realizing it only as he says it.

Cora searches his face, frowning, but she nods. “I can accept that,” she says, then manages to surprise Stiles once again by sitting beside him. They lean against the trunk together. 

“How are you doing?” Stiles asks quietly.

She wraps her arms around her knees. Shakes her head. “I had to get out of there.” Her voice is tight, and she gives a soft, sad laugh. “I've been in the woods, running, for most of the night.”

Stiles stares at her, shocked. “Out here? Cora, you know that's not safe!”

Her laugh is almost genuine this time. “Stiles, it's a lot safer for me than it is for you.” And, well, point.

He lets his head fall back against the tree, and shuts his eyes. “And Derek?” he asks, remembering the feel of the trembling, broken Alpha under his hand.

Cora's words are barely more than a whisper. “I'm not sure he's able to come back from this. I think it's finally too much.” Her voice breaks at the end, and Stiles squeezes his eyes shut harder, trying to block out all the tragedy he hears there. 

“What happened, after we left?”

“Derek brought Boyd's body to his family. Said he found it in the woods. I don't know-” Her voice catches again. “After his sister disappeared, his dad started drinking too much. His mom works all the time. I don't think they can survive this now, too.” There's a dry, stifled sob, and Stiles doesn't think, he just slides his arm around her shoulders and pulls her close. She doesn't resist. “When Derek came back, I told him that we had to go after them. For justice.” Her fingertip elongates into a claw, and she draws a spiral into the dirt with it. The claw retracts. “Vengeance. An Alpha must avenge a member of his pack. It's the natural way of things. But he's just numb. He won't react. He wanted to leave, to get out of Beacon Hills for good, and I screamed and told him that running away wouldn't solve anything. But then I ran myself, and I just couldn't stop. I've been out here since then.”

Stiles stares at the spiral etched into the forest floor. Vengeance. There's something beautiful about it, the relentless whorls expanding ever-outwards, spilling forth from the tightly wound center. _Vengeance_. He's not sure why, but he likes it. 

Unsettled, he turns his mind to another track. “Cora,” he asks, “how did you know Boyd so well? I went to school with the guy for years and I'm not sure I ever knew his first name.” 

She eyes him disbelievingly. “Yeah, well, there are plenty of opportunities for bonding moments when you're locked in a bank vault with a guy for three months.”

Stiles flinches around the guilt that threatens to swallow him up again. “Erica, too?” 

“Yeah,” Cora says softly. “It's silly, but – I hope they're together now.”

He blinks hard against the watering of his eyes. He hopes so too.

“I know you want to ask how I ended up in that bank vault,” Cora tells him. 

“Are you going to answer me, if I do?” He holds his breath. He wants to hear this. 

“Maybe I'm ready to talk about it.” Her grin is small, but it's there. “Maybe I want you to trust me.”

“Oh yeah? And why's that?”

She picks up his free hand, the one that's not wrapped around her shoulders. “Erica told me about you, you know. She said you made a good Batman.” She twines their fingers together. “I always did like Batman.”

“Cora,” he breathes. His heart is beating hard in his chest, and he knows she can hear it. He should be embarrassed. He's not. Her face is so close, Stiles barely needs to lean forward to brush his lips against hers. Cora's hand comes up to his cheek, holds him there, deepening the kiss for a long moment. They pull back and stare at each other, Cora's face relaxing into an easy smile. He can hardly stand how lovely it looks on her. 

But then the smile fades and a faraway look comes into her eyes. “I was eleven, when the fire happened.” Stiles tightens his grip on her shoulder, but says nothing. “It was the morning after a full moon. My whole family had gathered here, for my cousin's first full shift. It happens around puberty or so. Before then, we can't really control it. Full moons are rough on younger wolves, and we used to take the next day off from school to recover. Derek and Laura were older, so they went, but the rest of us were at home – my cousin got the day off in celebration. But I was almost there; I was _so close_ to controlling my shift that I decided I wanted to go to school that day. I wanted to feel grown-up, like my siblings, and my cousin. So I snuck out. I was cutting through the woods to get to school when it happened.” Her voice shakes a little before she continues. “No one knew I wasn't there. There were always relatives popping in; I don't think anyone could have known exactly how many bodies they should have found inside the house.”

Stiles breathes slowly through nose, trying to compose himself. “I should have been there,” Cora whispers, her face turned into his shoulder. Her whole body is shaking and he holds her close, trying to offer what small comfort he can. 

“Why didn't you go back, find Derek and Laura?” He asks, voice as calm as he can make it. 

She shakes her head. “The wolf side of me knew the moment my Alpha died. And my Alpha was my mother. I could smell the smoke through the trees, and- I'd thought I was close to controlling my shift. But I couldn't. Every instinct I had was screaming at me to run, and the wolf side just took over. It's easier to bury your grief when your mind isn't fully human – I went practically feral. I think I ran for days.” 

She's speaking in a low, clipped tone that Stiles recognizes as an attempt to power through, to tell her story before it breaks her. He doesn't interrupt.

“I think I was in Montana when I ran straight into a werewolf pack patrolling their territory. They held me captive while I came back to my human self. They knew about the fire – everyone was talking about it – but I don't think they knew who I was. Not yet. I heard betas talking, plotting, about going after Laura. It was the kind of pack held together by ties of convenience, not any sort of genuine bond - the Alpha 'recruited' by picking up omegas and pitting them against each other, accepting only the strongest into his pack.”

“So... werewolf Thunderdome?” Stiles asks, fighting to keep his tone even.

“Exactly. They didn't make me fight – not right away, at least. But they wouldn't let me leave. They put the young ones through 'training,' basically letting us practice by beating up on each other until we were old enough to face our actual trials. Kali and Ennis came by a few times – I think they were scouting for Deucalion. There were other packs like this – they found the twins from one. I was smaller than the others, but I had the advantage of being a born werewolf. I trained constantly, trying to stay a step ahead. If I could be accepted as a full pack member, then I might have been able to leave, to find Derek and Laura..." 

She pauses then, looks up and meets his eyes for the first time since starting her story. Hers are distinctly wet. Stiles' are too. “I'd been there for five or six years when I suddenly knew that Laura had died.” Stiles' stomach clenches. “She probably never knew that she had another beta out there, because she wasn't looking for our link – and we were so far apart. But my wolf side had recognized her as my Alpha since Mom died. After Laura – I thought my allegiance would shift to Derek, the next in line. But I felt nothing, and I knew that Derek must be dead as well. I realize now that it was because the natural line of succession was broken when Peter stole her power. But I thought I had no one left. I was truly an omega, then – I had no Alpha. No reason to even bother trying to escape.”

She's shuddering again, breaking out of the flow of her story. Stiles squeezes their joined fingers, anger pulsing through his stomach. He thinks he's going to be sick, but he needs to hear this. Cora continues.

“Then I started to hear rumors. The pack was talking. About a new Hale Alpha, building up a pack. I requested my first trial. Kali and Ennis were there - it was the first time I remember seeing Deucalion with them. He didn't say anything, but I knew he recognized me. Knew I was a Hale.

“I won my trial. The Alpha wanted me to kill the other omega, but- I couldn't. Wouldn't. Do it. So I ran. I don't know if I was pumped up from the adrenaline of the fight, or what, but I managed to get away – I was free for a few hours, running, when the Alpha pack caught me. They brought me back to Beacon Hills – I'd finally made it home,” she says bitterly. “They made me stand in front of the ruins of my home as they left their mark for Derek, and then they threw me in the vault with Boyd and Erica. You know the rest.” 

Stiles thinks he might be numb. Cora's breath is coming in shallow gasps - he can feel the harsh rise and fall against his chest. “I'm broken, Stiles,” she chokes out. “I don't know how to be normal. I don't know how to be Derek's little sister again, how to be a regular teenager... I spent six years burying any emotion that wasn't anger, because anger was the only one that was safe to feel. And now it's the only one that I _can_ feel.”

The tears that have been threatening for a while now suddenly spill, and Cora looks almost surprised as she tries to hold back her sobs. “God, I'm sorry,” she says, and Stiles shakes his head, brushing his fingers against the wet tracks on her cheeks.

“No,” he says. “Don't be.”

She wipes furiously at her eyes, smiling weakly at him. “It's just – you're somehow the only thing that makes me feel like I could be normal again.” He raises an eyebrow, and she laughs around her tears. “Hey, don't ask me, I don't get it either.” 

Stiles can't help but laugh in response, overwhelming affection filling up just as surely as that deep, painful ache that's been steadily growing since Cora started her story. He presses his lips to her forehead, because it feels right, and pulls her back against his chest.

They sit like that in quiet, against the tree, with Cora in Stiles' arms. She dozes off at some point, the exhaustion of her night of running and the outpouring of emotions catching up to her, and Stiles sits there, holding this strange, unexpected girl, and wonders if normal even means anything anymore.

He must eventually drift off too, because the next thing he knows, he's dreaming. 

_The Tree, again. It is the same as before, unchanged. Immutable. But the man that hangs from it is not the same, though his position is a perfect simulacrum of the one who had been before him. He mirrors him in every way, even as he lifts his head to meet Stiles' gaze._

_It's not Odin. It's Deaton._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to make up for some very frustrating discrepancies in canon; I hope the explanation I worked out makes sense. 
> 
> And we're pretending 90% of Visionary never happened, so they didn't have to hear about the druid stuff from Peter/Gerard (because why wouldn't the Hale children have grown up knowing about emissaries?? Derek should definitely have known that; I don't even know with this show).
> 
> Also, if anyone has read American Gods, you probably know where this is going.
> 
> I'm going back to school soon but I will try to update as often as possible!


End file.
